Showing posts with label short stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short stories. Show all posts

Sunday, May 17, 2026

Nowhere Man - Talking Story with Arlo

ArloMarketPlace.com
Talking Story with Arlo

Nowhere Man
By Arlo Agogo - a human storyteller

He’s a real Nowhere Man, sitting in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody. 

And let me tell you, folks, that’s the most beautiful sentence I’ve ever heard in my life. This morning I fired up "The Beast" — my 40-foot diesel pusher with 80,000 miles on her—and pointed her north on the first odd-numbered highway I saw. Today it is Highway 95 towards Southern Idaho.                                                                                         
I still need another 920,000 miles to join the million mile RV club. "The Beast" can do it.

Odd numbers have upward energy in my personal religion. Even numbers feel like they’re stalling. The desert summer was already licking at the windows. 

Time to chase 72 degrees again—that gentle sweet spot where the air feels like a handshake and the sun isn’t trying to cook me. I do not have a point of view, knows not where I’m going to. 

And that suits me just fine.

Back in Southern California I lived surrounded by millions, bars, drifting girlfriends, and work that paid the bills. I socialized like it was an Olympic sport. I am 70 years old, things are different now. 

Now my friends and family are distant—seven or eight years since I’ve seen most of them. Sounds sad when I say it out loud, but it isn’t. My head is clearer than it’s been since I was twenty. 

Bills on auto-pay, Social Security and savings keeping the fridge full, investments untouched, and blog ad revenue buying diesel fuel and tacos. Life in my seventies is good.

I woke up yesterday at a nowhere truck stop. 

Coffee tasted like sock water, but the sunrise was free and spectacular. Stepped outside in my slippers, stretched, and felt it: zero obligations except finding that perfect 72-degree zip code. No meetings. No lawn. No “we need to talk.”Just me, the Beast, and the open road. There’s comedy in this life. 

Yesterday I tried parallel parking this land yacht while towing my dune buggy. It was more creative geometry than parking. A trucker gave me a slow clap. I bowed like a beatnik Shakespeare and handed him a taco. We swapped road stories as the sun went down. 

That’s the gift of being a Nowhere Man.

When you travel as a solo traveler, you emit a magnetism of friendly availability. People see that you're available to talk to engage and invite you over for Sunday dinner. The social world accepts that you're here for a good time not a long time and there's nobody who will come between you and your new acquaintance.

You collect these tiny, perfect moments like shiny rocks in your pocket. I’m not lonely. I’m liberated. I’ve earned the right to stop chasing schemes and start chasing perfect temperatures. North in summer, south in winter, or whatever the hell I feel like. My office is wherever I park with a good view. My only boss is the guy in the rearview mirror, and he’s usually agreeable after coffee. 

"He’s as blind as he can be, just sees what he wants to see." What I see is freedom painted in big, ridiculous brushstrokes: mountain passes where my rig leans into the curves like she’s dancing, diners with pie specials and waitresses who call me “hon,” and mornings where the only sound is birds arguing about breakfast.

People ask if I get bored. Bored? I’ve got more entertainment than I know what to do with. Nowhere Man, don’t worry. Take your time, don’t hurry. Leave it all ’til somebody else lends you a hand.

I don’t need much help these days. The Beast handles the heavy lifting, my stories handle the creativity, and the road handles the rest. 

I like to entertain myself by going to different shows my favorites are rodeos, car shows, boat shows and especially farmers markets.

When you find yourself traveling in the country just get on the internet search for farmers markets and you'll find yourself right in the middle of small town get togethers. Small town farmers markets is where all the locals go to trade goods and produce and freshly harvested meats.

I find them particularly friendly especially when the conversation starts and they realize I'm traveling solo they want to feed you which I happily accept.

There is nothing better to a solo traveler than to be invited to somebody's farm for Sunday cookout. It's just not that family it's the nieces and nephews and aunts and uncles and neighbors all enjoying the fruits of their labors and home cooked meals that you only hear about.

Feasting to way past dark and then waddling my way back to the RV with permission from the landowner to spend the night me telling them I'll be gone before the sun comes up.

When I do need a hand, it shows up—usually with a friendly wave or a perfect 72-degree day. I spent my younger decades surrounded by noise. Now the motion is mine to control and the noise is optional. 

I can blast the music or drive in silence. Pull over and write or roll until sunset says stop. No pressure. No performance. Just pure, unfiltered life.
Tra, la, la, la... That little nonsense chorus is the soundtrack to my days now. I sing it while making coffee in the tiny kitchen. I hum it while semis blow by like metal dinosaurs. 

Making all my nowhere plans for nobody.

This isn’t running away. It’s running forward—toward the ridiculous joy of being seventy-something with the fewest attachments and the lightest heart.

So if you see a big silver-and-black 40-footer with “The Beast” on the back parked under a tree up on odd-numbered highway, know all is well.

I’ll probably be inside writing, eating a taco, and singing along with John, Paul, George, and Ringo about this glorious nowhere life.

Somewhere up ahead, a perfect temperature is waiting.

Grove is in the Heart - Arlo
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Sunday, May 10, 2026

Doris Day, Me and Kauai - Talking Story with Arlo

Storytelling
Talking Story with Arlo
Time to Go
By Arlo Agogo. - a human storyteller

It was late Friday night, the kind of hour when the desert cools down when the phone on the nightstand starts vibrating like it’s got secrets from another dimension. 

Could’ve been the Groovatrons beaming in from Planet Funkadelia, but nah — it was Doris Day. Not the movie star with the big smile and the songs, but my British gal pal Doris, the retired banker with a lifetime of sharp suits and straight lines who somehow digs rolling with a desert dude like me.

“Arlo", you awake?” she asked, voice crisp even at 2 a.m.

“Yeah, but gimme a moment to make sure I'm not dreaming. OK go.”

“I’ve been thinking. Let’s go on vacation. Where should we roam? I didn’t even hesitate. 

“Kauai, Hawaii. Grand Hyatt in Koloa. That’s the spot.” 

I sent her the link while we talked, and right there on the line I could hear her flipping through the photos, getting that spark. 

She’d never been to Hawaii. Never felt the real Aloha.

But she’s got airline reward miles stacked up like poker chips and plenty of unspent adventure money. 

“You’re in charge of the morning coffee,” she said. 

Deal sealed. We are gonna roll. A couple weeks later, a car rolled up, scooped me, then her, and off we went to Vegas for the big bird to Kauai. 

First class, naturally — Doris doesn’t do halfway. 

I’m just the adventure friend, the guy who says “ I'm with yah" and means it. She likes that about me. No heavy plans, no schedules carved in stone. Just flow.
We don't even know where either one of us lives. we always meet at the AVI Casino parking structure.

We touched down on the Garden Isle and the trade winds hit us like a cool jazz riff. Rental car, windows down, and straight to the Grand Hyatt Kauai Resort & Spa. Ocean-view rooms, palms swaying, the whole five-star setup sitting pretty on Poipu Beach. 

Doris stepped out onto the balcony, looked at that turquoise water stretching forever, and just whispered, “Bloody hell, Arlo… this is something else.” That first afternoon we hit the hotel’s British-style bar for a couple of Guinnesses. The aloha spirit started working on her immediately. 

By sunset dinner on the beach, she was laughing easier, shoulders down, the corporate armor cracking in the best way. “You weren’t kidding about this place,” she said, toes in the sand. I just grinned. "Yep, Kauai’s got soul.”

The days melted into pure magic. 

We drove over to the West side to visit Waimea, where she tried snorkeling for the first time. This proper British lady, former banking heavyweight, floating in warm Hawaiian waters with colorful fish swirling around her like living confetti. She came up laughing, mask fogged, hair wild — “I can’t believe I’m doing this!”

We walked the beach at sunset holding hands, not like young lovers with big plans, but like two old friends digging the same groove. She’s not really a beach girl. I’ve always lived near the water. Watching her discover it was pure gold.

We cruised up to Princeville — God’s own country, man. lush cliffs, ocean views that make you feel tiny and infinite at the same time. Played a little nine-hole golf along the coast. I sliced a few into the Pacific (as usual), and Doris gave me proper grief about it. 

We golfed, enjoying exactly where we were. That’s our thing: no pressure, just fun. She calls me her adventure buddy, and I wear that title proudly. One afternoon we visited some old friends of mine on the island. They laid out a beautiful lunch of native Hawaiian cuisine — fresh poke, Kalua pork, poi, the works. 

Doris, who’d spent decades in boardrooms, sat there eating with her fingers, listening to stories, eyes wide. The Aloha spirit was soaking in deep now. She got it. That warm, generous, live-and-let-live energy that Hawaii gives if you slow down enough to receive it.

We tore around the small island like kids with a new toy. Sunrises that painted the sky in impossible pinks and oranges. Sunset tours along the Na Pali Coast — those jagged emerald cliffs rising straight out of the ocean, waves crashing below. It blew both our minds. 

Evenings meant great fish dinners, swimming, more hand-holding, and long talks about everything and nothing. She loosened up completely. The serious banker faded, and this lighter, laughing Doris emerged — the one who belongs on adventures. Two weeks flew by in a blur of salt air, good food, and easy company. 

No drama, no expectations beyond “let’s have fun and see what happens.” That’s what makes our trips work. We’re not trying to build a white-picket future. We’re just two free spirits who enjoy each other’s company, share a few kisses and hugs when it feels right, then say goodbye with a smile until next time.

The flight back to Vegas felt shorter than it should. The car dropped us at our usual meeting spot near Laughlin. The casino lights were blinking their usual chaotic tune in the background. Doris turned to me with that warm British smile, eyes still carrying a bit of Hawaiian sunshine.

“Best vacation ever, Arlo. Truly. I finally understand what you meant by the Aloha spirit. Thank you for showing me Hawaii in her purest form.

”We hugged long and tight, the kind of embrace that says “we did good.” A proper kiss, then another laugh. “Until we roll again,” I told her. She squeezed my hand. “Let’s fire up those dune buggies soon. Lake Havasu’s calling. I’m ready when you are.”

Until then, Doris. ”She drove off with a wave and a big smile, back to her regular life — recharged, lighter, probably already planning the next escape. Me? I headed home with sand still in my shoes and a heart full of good memories. 

Two old friends who know how to keep it simple: show up, enjoy the ride, come back when the spirit moves us. That’s the beauty of it. 

Life’s too short for anything heavier. Just good company, beautiful places, and the open road — or in this case, the open ocean. Doris got her first real taste of Hawaii.

A proper lady let the Aloha spirit rearrange her molecules.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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Wednesday, May 6, 2026

See Me, Feel Me - Talking Story with Arlo

World Full of Contrar
Talking Story with Arlo

See Me, Feel Me
By Arlo Agogo 

Sung by the band "The Who" from their rock opera "Tommy"

🎶 See MeFeel MeTouch MeHeal Me ðŸŽ¶
🎶 Listening to you, I get the musicGazing at you, I get the heatFollowing you, I climb the mountainI get excitement at your feet ðŸŽ¶

Man, dig this scene.You’re laying it down smooth — that premise, that little spark of truth you’ve been turning over like a lucky coin — and bam!

Some cat jumps in with “Yeah, but…” before you even hit the downbeat. 

Suddenly you’re not sharing the groove anymore. You’re defending the solo. The whole night turns into a courtroom instead of a jam session.

I’ve seen it plenty. You’re building the bridge, laying the foundation, reaching for the sky — and they’re already tearing at the scaffolding. By the time it’s over, you haven’t said your piece. 

You’ve just been in the ring. Why do they do it? 

Some cats need to feel sharp, like they’re the only one who really sees the angles. Others are scared — scared that if they let your idea breathe, it might change the air in the room and they won’t know how to breathe anymore. 

Some are just tired of the world and push back on everything, like it’s the only way they know they’re still alive. In the end, it’s the same sad riff.

They never really hear you. 

They’re too busy writing their own counter-melody. But here’s the real cool move, daddy-o: flip the script. Stop being the one who always swings back. Become the cat who listens — I mean really listens. Not the fake “yeah man, sure” while your mind is already loading the rebuttal.  

I’m talking eyes locked, soul open, heart wide like a late-night saxophone solo that lets the notes hang in the smoky air.  

You let the other person finish their whole thought — premise, build, conclusion, the works. 

You nod slow. You say, “Keep going, man… I’m digging what you’re laying down.”Then, only then, you add your two cents if the moment still feels right. Do that and something wild happens. The whole room changes temperature. 

People feel seen. 

That tight, guarded look in their eyes softens, and suddenly they’re laying down truths they didn’t even know they were carrying. Real connection starts cooking. You walk away lighter, not tighter. Your own head gets clearer because you’re not constantly proving you’re the smartest cat in the room.

You’re just grooving with the universe as it unfolds.

And dig this — people start wanting to hang with you. Not because you win every debate, but because when they talk to you, they actually get to talk. 

You give them the rare gift of undivided attention in a world that’s always interrupting itself. 

Friends linger longer. Conversations go deeper. Even the contrarian cats start easing up around you, because you’re not feeding their habit. You’re showing them a different rhythm — one where listening first makes the music richer when it’s your turn to blow.

Now, if your buddy keeps cutting you off mid-solo, you don’t have to get heavy. Just lay it down easy: “Hey man, let me finish this thought, then I wanna hear where your head’s at.” 

If they still can’t cool it, save the deep riffs for other nights. Same when conversations start turning into battlefields — sometimes the kindest thing is to name the pattern without blame: “I feel like we’re not hearing each other lately".

Let’s slow it down. But here’s where it gets extra beautiful.

Storytelling. 

In a live rap session, the contrary cats can jump in anytime and wreck your flow. They love that. But when you write a story — when you spin a tale on the page or tell it smooth around the fire — they can’t interrupt. 

You got the wheel. You set the tempo. You take them on the full journey: the setup, the tension, the sweet release. The reader is strapped in, riding the wave with you.

Stories slip past the defenses.

They don’t hit the brain like cold facts that make a cat want to argue. They slide into the heart like a slow blues number. People remember stories. They feel them. They live inside them for a while. The numbers and logic bounce off armor, but a good tale? It sneaks in the back door and rearranges the furniture before anyone notices.  

Still, you gotta earn the ride. 

If your story starts smelling like baloney halfway through, they’ll put it down. So you keep it real. You write from the gut, from the late-night truths you’ve actually lived or deeply felt. You respect the reader’s intelligence. You make the characters breathe and the emotions ring true. 

When the story feels honest, they stay till the last line — nodding along, maybe even changed a little on the inside. Living this way — choosing to listen instead of always swinging back — it does something deep to your soul. It lightens the load. You stop carrying the weight of needing to be right all the time. 

You become the kind of cat people seek out when the night gets heavy and they need someone who won’t judge or correct — just hear them out. Next time you’re in a conversation and that old urge to contradict rises up, just breathe. Let it pass like smoke. Ask a question instead. Reflect what you heard. Let the other person finish their solo all the way to the last note.

You might be surprised how often the groove comes back around, and they start listening to you with the same respect. In this wild, noisy world full of cats trying to out-cool each other, the real cool ones aren’t the loudest or the quickest with the comeback. 

Let the other cat play..

And when it’s your turn? Man… blow sweet.

Groove is in the Heart — Arlo


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Sunday, May 3, 2026

Open Arms - Talking Story with Arlo

Storytelling

 Talking Story with Arlo

Open Arms

By Arlo Agogo - a human creator

In this spinning world of bad news and scrolls, endless wars and the grinding teeth of affordability, where the grass always looks greener on the other side until you get there and find it’s just more dirt and bills

There’s still one pure move left that cuts through all the static. I stand with my arms open.

Not metaphorically. Literally. Wide. Vulnerable. 

Foolish in the best way. Every time Roxanne has been gone for any stretch—work, travel, family, whatever pulls her away for hours or days I plant myself in the doorway or the living room or wherever she first enters the house.

I wait with my arms spread like I’m trying to hug the whole damn universe just to get to her. She drops whatever she’s carrying. Purse, bags, coat, the weight of the road. No words. No laugh. Just a running start and then she leaps. 

Straight into the open arms. And we lock in. Tight. Real. 

The kind of embrace that says everything the tired world forgot how to say. I’ve tried this with others before her. Different women, different chapters. Some looked at me like I was performing. Others gave a half-hearted pat on the back and moved on to the casual script: “Hey, how are you? Glad you’re back.” 

The feelings that followed those lukewarm reunions taught me something sharp—affection isn’t automatic. Some hearts don’t trust the grand gesture anymore. They’ve been burned too many times by people who open their arms but close their souls.

But Roxanne?

Ten years and she has never let me down, not once.

She tells me now that as she drives those last two hours home, she’s already picturing it. 

My open arms. The safe landing.

The place where the journey ends and home begins.
Open arms for the girl you’re spending your life with. Not just a greeting. A reset button.We have this unspoken agreement, a nonverbal gig we both honor.

When I come home, I don’t get the running jump. 

I get something quieter, deeper, and just as powerful: the stillness of her smile. That warm, extended embrace that says “you made it” without needing to announce it. We stand there in the kitchen or hallway, sometimes for a long minute or two, before the day’s momentum kicks back in. It’s like we both need that pause. 

That moment of re-connection before the laundry, the dinner, the bills, the news, the everything else tries to pull us apart again. 

It a true joy. Even when things are rough.

Even when the world outside has clawed at us all day. That extended embrace turns the volume down on the chaos and brings us back to square one—as a team.

There’s a particular magic in those two or three seconds when we first lock eyes from about twenty feet apart. I’m standing there, arms already open. 

She’s just walked in, or stepped into the restaurant, or arrived wherever we’re meeting......

For that brief suspended beat, time stretches. 

We see each other clearly. No words yet. Just recognition. She knows she’s reached her destination. Not the house. Not the city. Me.

This is home. I ’m thinking: She’s here. 

This is gonna be great. After all the miles, the meetings, the noise—she’s here. She’s thinking something like: He is here. Arms open. I’m safe. I can let go now. 

In those two or three seconds, everything else falls away. The arguments we might have had last week, the stresses of money, the headlines screaming from every screen—they all shrink.

What remains is the simple, ridiculous, beautiful truth: we still choose each other in the most physical, unguarded way possible. 

We meet at a restaurant.

She walks in from across the room. Instead of waving or doing the polite nod, I stand up, push my chair back, and open my arms right there in front of everyone. No hiding it. No playing it cool.

She stops about twenty feet away. Just for a moment.

We both wait. There’s this delicious little pause where the excitement builds. The anticipation. The quiet thrill of knowing what’s about to happen. She smiles that forever smile of hers. I feel my own chest loosen. 

Then she closes the distance and we wrap up in each other while the table watches, some smiling, some probably thinking we’re a little much. 

Doesn’t matter. In that moment, the whole room disappears. It’s just us reaffirming the pact: we’re still in this. 

Open arms says: You matter more than the noise. The stillness of her smile when I walk in says: 

You are my peace.

That extended embrace, whether it’s the running jump or the quiet hold, resets the meter. It reminds us we’re not just two individuals sharing space and bills. We’re a team. 

It’s not perfect. We’re not perfect.
 
Arms open. Smile waiting. Two or three seconds of pure recognition. 

Then the leap. 

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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